


(am i) strong enough

by nubbins_for_all



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Brienne for President, Endgame Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, F/M, Jaime is the Leetle Spoon, Light Dom/sub, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, also as per tradition, and even now i have severe doubts about whether or not to inflict these ramblings on the world, basically 13k words of JAIME FEELING EVERY EMOTION EVER, is the only way to justify this fic existing, like honestly if you have any desire for plot STAY AWAY, references to rough sex/veeeeeeery mild dub-con, wordy as fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:08:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22328353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nubbins_for_all/pseuds/nubbins_for_all
Summary: It’s not good, he know it’s not. He’s trying to fix it but the whole thing still doesn’t—it’s not—he just can’t get it to—Fuck. What’s happening to him? It doesn’t even make sense, because it’s not like he’s a virgin. He’s fathered at least three children, for Gods’ sake. He’s famed through Westeros for his beauty and charm, he’s strong and clean and has all his teeth (if not all his hands) and he’s been making love since he was barely into his teens, he knows what to do and how to do it right.With Cersei.And there it is, the truth he pushed and fought and drank away last night, it’s come for him now. He doesn’t know what to do with Brienne because it’s not—because—fine, fucking fine, because she’s not Cersei.-It's Jaime's second night with Brienne at Winterfell, and things are...complicated.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Past Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister - Relationship
Comments: 81
Kudos: 345





	(am i) strong enough

**Author's Note:**

  * For [archette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/archette/gifts).



> I...I cannot explain why I wrote this.
> 
> Honestly, I think I just wanted to get back into fic and decided to spend a little time thinking about the dirty mechanics of Jaime actually sleeping with someone who ISN'T his lifelong lover and also being a complete dingus who has no idea how to process emotions properly and--yeah, I thinked too hard, y'all.
> 
> Anyways, I hope someone out there finds something to enjoy in this. Rest assured, I have other projects in the pipeline (I know I always say that but I mean it this time) and they're chockful of DIALOGUE and SOCIAL DYNAMICS and MINIMAL ACTION. So, y'know, if you're holding out for that stuff, stay tuned.
> 
> Finally, DISCLAIMER: sex is sex is sex, guys. As long as everyone involved has given full and uncoerced consent and knows when and how to stop the action if things go awry, do whatever you like. Pain-play is a completely legit and healthy sexual practice--UNLESS IT'S NOT YOU WANT. Then, like anything sexy, it's bad because it's not your choice for your body. And that, as my people say, is fershlugina.
> 
> Okay, health class is over. Go have fun, kids.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing.

He didn’t know last night either, but at least then he was drunk. And she was drunk, or what passes for drunk with Brienne. And it had been the first time, and it had been unexpected, and—

And _fuck,_ it wasn’t really the first time, was it, because he’d thought of it over and over, for years, dreamed about it in the daylight and the black of night, even as he could feel Cersei’s eyes on his back and his own heart heavy in his chest because only one person was _his,_ would ever be _his_ , so why was he thinking of someone else, _there would never be anyone else,_ and with an increasing sense of futility he had continued to swat the fantasy away like a stinging fly determined to drive him mad.

Then last night it had actually happened, the first time with someone else, and not just anyone but _Brienne_ , and the whole thing had seemed even more like a dream than any of his many imaginings, the way she cut all of his strings and he was floating up and away from the pain and the grief and there was Brienne with her arms out to pull him close—

—but that was last night.

This is now.

Jaime doesn’t fucking know what he’s doing.

* * *

His stump is asleep.

It’s pinned underneath him at a weird angle, his own elbow digging into his stomach, and the whole arm is totally numb. Without a hand he doesn’t have the leverage to shift himself into a different position. and any other remedy to the situation would involve interrupting the current activities, which he really doesn’t want to do because the current activities are Brienne.

They’re lying on their sides in her bed, boots and cloaks discarded in a pile on the floor, and they’re kissing. Jaime’s five remaining fingers are buried in her surprisingly soft hair and shaped around the curve of her skull, palm pressed flat against her ear. Her jaw bumps against his wrist as she opens her mouth and kisses him with a hesitant gentleness that incongruously sets his blood on fire, and her hand is so big and so strong on his hip, and she’s breathing through her nose, little puffs that sometimes come with a short grunt or a hum, and something about the sound makes him feel—it’s strange but it makes him feel _wanted_ , and _safe,_ and _trusted_ , like she’s actually forgotten to be wary and taciturn with him, not the way she is with everyone else, and he sighs as she tentatively tightens her grasp on his hip and pushes one of her legs between his, just barely brushing where he’s hard in his trousers—

But he can’t enjoy any of it like he wants because his fucking stump is asleep and it’s uncomfortable and awkward and the whole thing is really distracting him.

Not just his stump. The fire snaps and pops in the background and it’s just as warm in here as it was last night, _too_ warm, stuffy, smoky, making his eyes sting. He’d tried to make a snide comment about it earlier, the first thing he said when she let him in, and she’d frowned and looked confused like she didn’t get the reference and he’d started to explain but then given up halfway through because the best-case scenario was that she’d be annoyed with his teasing and the worst-case scenario was that she’d kick him right back out.

They’d stood there in awkward silence for a moment, him by the fire and her by the bed. Jaime had finally decided to break the ice by removing his golden hand, which he knew for a fact he hadn’t worn in bed the night before, and laying it on the table. Her eyes had followed the hand when he put it down, but then she’d looked back at his face, not at his reddened stump like he expected, and he’d been thrown again. Another long minute passed before he asked about Sansa, and she’d haltingly described how she’d spent the day accompanying the Lady of Winterfell through a series of visits to grieving soldiers’ widows and stone-faced Unsullied and a thoroughly gloomy Jon Snow. He hadn’t been listening, not really, because he was too busy trying to think of a proper and appropriate way to say _I’ve spent all day thinking about how soft your cunt is,_ or at least find a natural segue into it.

She’d trailed off when she realized he wasn’t following. Her eyes had fallen to the floor, like a schoolchild who had failed their recitation of the Seven Blessings and expected to be disciplined by a disapproving maester, and Jaime felt her begin to close back up and shut him out and in true Jaime Lannister fashion he’d moved without thinking and in a second he was across the room with his mouth on hers.

Or, it might be more accurate to say, his mouth on her chin. But it was fine, he pulled back and corrected his trajectory and there, that was a proper kiss, she tasted like barley bread and cider and steel and she smelled like sweat and fur and _Brienne_ and he pressed closer—

Just as she tried to do the same, and their shoulders bumped and his teeth clicked rather painfully against hers and she jerked back reflexively and he almost lost his balance holding onto her and the whole thing was painful and still awkward and he was doing it _wrong._

He’s doing it all wrong, the angles and the pressure and the rhythm, all of it. Lying down on the bed made it a little easier, reduced the role their differences in size and height played, but now his arm is asleep and her hair is too short to properly run his fingers through and he’s hard and squirmy but he’s not sure where or if he’s allowed to actively rub against her, and it’s not good, he know it’s not, he’s trying to fix it but the whole thing still doesn’t—it’s not—he just can’t get it to—

Fuck. _Fuck._ What’s happening to him? It doesn’t even make sense, because it’s not like he’s a virgin. He’s fathered at least three children, for Gods’ sake. He’s famed through Westeros for his beauty and charm, he’s strong and clean and has all his teeth (if not all his hands) and he’s been making love since he was barely into his teens, he _knows_ what to do and how to do it right.

With Cersei.

And there it is, the truth he pushed and fought and drank away last night, it’s come for him now. He doesn’t know what to do with Brienne because it’s not—because—fine, fucking _fine_ , because she’s not Cersei.

* * *

Before Harrenhal, Jaime had seen countless naked women—being Tyrion’s older brother will do that—but he’d never _looked_ at them. Not in the way most men did, or at least how they seemed to. It wasn’t that he found them displeasing, or that he had any shame about it. After all, he was Jaime Lannister, and women were going to present themselves to him, and his father and the many smirking faces at court made it clear that he had every right to take them how and when he wanted.

But he never wanted. He never wanted any of them but Cersei.

She had been the first one to touch his cock, at least that he could remember. Certainly, nannies and septas had washed him head to foot, he had been dressed by hand as a toddler, and he’d touched himself, of course, out of natural curiosity. But Cersei had been the first person to reach for him with intent and wonder, the first to map him out with her soft little fingers. He doesn’t know how old they were—definitely younger than ten. Mother may have been alive, but somehow, he doesn’t think so. He imagines he would have felt naughtier if she were.

But Cersei had always been in charge of the games and the fantasies, she said they were two halves of a whole and that meant her thoughts were his, and so when she wanted to touch it must be because he had already said yes in his head, that’s the only way it made sense, how could she ask for what had already belonged to her since the beginning?

And nobody ever _said_ to him, explicitly, that sisters weren’t for _that._ Cersei was his playmate and his mirror image and his driving force, all her ideas bigger than his, her imagination and ambition blooming to the full before her mind and body had even begun. He loved to wrestle and play with toy swords and explore, but Cersei would craft elaborate games and intrigues for the two of them, lead them all over the Rock on quests and crusades that always ended with her being crowned queen and him bearing her standard as a knight of a realm. She dreamt of far more, and he loved her dreams—because love is what sisters were for. There was no love from Father, and Mother’s love was soft and sweet, not thrilling like Cersei’s, and then it was gone and the only replacement was the love of a small, stunted little brother who looked at Jaime like he glowed but also radiated sadness and discontent always, every minute of the day, worse when Father was around.

Cersei was for _love_ , the kind that lit him on fire, and when she touched him, he only burned brighter.

So there had never been other women to look at. His body had not had any time to want before having—in fact, the having came before the wanting—and so the wanting never looked any further than its first encounter with satisfaction. Why would he want another’s body when Cersei’s made him feel good and along with it came Cersei’s mind and heart, so dear to him, his family, everything he really longed for in one singular person—

And she wanted him back. She needed him. Because her quests and crusades ended as her breasts and secret hair appeared, and the more they tied her down with silks and jewels the more Jaime saw wildness grow in her eyes.

_You’re the one with the sword and the cock, Jaime. You have to go out and fight for me, for us. Without you, I’ll be alone, in pain, ruined—without you, there is no love at all._

He tried. Over and over, to be what she wanted and needed, to give her the dignity and respect that a more just world would have afforded a spirit like hers. And so much of it had been fucking. They talked, of course they talked, and they shared thoughts _(or so he believed and she claimed)_ , but really, over time, it became about the fucking. That was the one thing that was theirs and theirs alone, that no one could know or see, or even misinterpret as the loyalty of a brother to a sister or a guard to a queen. Robert could make her say and do anything, as the King he could make _Jaime_ do and say anything, and if it wasn’t Robert then it was their father, and if it wasn’t their father then it was being a man and being a woman under the laws of gods—but the sex was forbidden, which made it precious. It was against every rule and every command and in that disobedience, there was immense freedom for each of them.

Jaime had never had sex with anyone else. He had never wanted to. Cersei’s body was the only one he’d ever known, and he’d planned to die that way.

Then he was sick and feverish at Harrenhal and he made one too many cruel jokes and Brienne had shot to her feet without a single thought of propriety or woman’s modesty or trust, she’d exposed herself in a forbidden way, just as she did so many other forbidden things without pausing to care who or what she scandalized, and Jaime had looked up at her with his thundering heart in his throat.

He hadn’t wanted her then. But he had looked— _looked_ at her.

Miles beneath his feet, the earth had shifted.

* * *

She can tell something is wrong.

Her kisses, so unexpectedly sweet and soft, are slowing, and rather than pulling him closer with the hand on his hip she seems to be holding him still, maybe even pushing back a bit. Jaime’s reaction to her withdrawal is to throw himself into the project with almost manic enthusiasm, kissing her for all he’s worth and squeezing her leg tight between his and roughly pawing at her with his good hand because if he can just get her hot enough to forget that he’s in trouble then she’ll never have to know about the panic pounding through him. He and Cersei used to do it to each other all the time when things were bad, he knows it can work.

But it’s not working now. The wilder he gets, the more she retreats, and the louder the voice in Jaime’s head that sounds suspiciously like his little brother grows.

 _Why are you trying to shove your tongue down her throat like that? She doesn’t seem like to like it at all. But then again how would you know, you have no idea what she likes or how she acts when she_ does _like something! Were you paying attention last night, you absolute idiot? Or were you so wrapped up in your own selfish prick you couldn’t even be bothered to notice how_ she _felt about the whole thing? Did you make her come or not? Do you even know? Stop biting her lip, she’s wincing, that’s no good, that’s for_ Cersei _, just because_ Cersei _liked something doesn’t mean Brienne would too! They’re women, not trebuchets, you can’t just swing a hammer and off she flies, Gods you’re an embarrassment, she’s probably disappointed and bored and desperate for this to be over! What kind of lover are you, have you ever been? Not just a sister-fucker but a_ lousy _sister-fucker at that! Now you’re being too rough with your hands, don’t smack her about, just try and do something right for once, you absolute—_

And then Brienne pulls back entirely, a hand firm on his chest to stop him from seeking after her. She frowns at him, stern even in spite of her swollen lips and the flush in her cheeks. She can tell that he’s falling apart here, of course she can, she knows him so well, too well, why did he let her know him, why did he give so many parts of himself away to her? A master swordswoman who speaks little and sees too much, who insists on believing in him and his mangled honor, the polar opposite of the only lover he’s ever taken—she knows him, she knows more than he wants her to.

“Jaime—”

He tries to surge forward and cut off her off with a kiss, but she’s far too strong and her reflexes are far too quick for him to make it even halfway. The hand on his chest gives a powerful shove that would already be enough to unbalance him, but with the added complication of his completely numb stump folded awkwardly under his torso, the gods see a wonderful opportunity to humiliate him further as they angle Brienne’s hand in just such a way that she ends up pushing Jaime’s shoulder out from under him and off the edge of the bed, in which direction the rest of him immediately follows when his limp arm fails to brace him.

Luckily, the high-pitched yelp he makes when he hits the ground is covered somewhat by the thump of his head bouncing off the floorboards.

* * *

The first time he wanted her was—he’s not sure when it was.

Maybe in King’s Landing, one of those nights when Cersei had not come to him and Tyrion had been too drunk to sit and talk and Joffrey was being a vicious little monster while Tywin coldly yanked on all their strings. Maybe after he’d seen her drilling in the yards earlier, stripped down to a linen shirt and breeches, her teeth bared as she grunted and spit and the muscles all up and down her body flexed taut with every pivot. Maybe when she had finally put down the sword and lumbered over to her waterskin and taken a great greedy swig from it, errant drops splashing down her front and mingling with the patchy sweat stains beneath her breasts and shoulders. He’d turned away quickly, more quickly than he really wanted to, but he’d thought of the image in passing when he drank a glass of wine that night, and several glasses later he didn’t touch himself but only because the wine made sure there would be no point if he tried.

Yes, that might have been when he first wanted her.

Or maybe it was just after she left on horseback, clad in armor he’d commissioned with her frame in mind, flanked by his disgraced little brother’s squire, wearing his sword on her hip. She’d looked back at him just once, only for a few seconds, but it was enough to see—something in her face, a strange tenderness he might have even called longing, if he thought Brienne of Tarth could long for anything besides justice and honor. He’d watched until her little caravan had disappeared at the end of the promenade, and that night he’d had Cersei on her knees, slender back arched as she spread her legs wider and hissed through her teeth every time his hips slammed into the smooth firmness of her ass, and he’d been panting and pumping and seconds from the edge when suddenly he saw blue eyes and blue metal and heard _“Oathkeeper”_ like a whisper from another room and before he could stop it he’d come so hard he’d collapsed forward and crushed Cersei into the bed.

She’d kneed him in the balls for that. It didn’t hurt worse than the shame and anger he carried with him for days. _Traitor,_ he’d thought to himself, _love-traitor._

But he didn’t love Brienne. He couldn’t. Love was for Cersei.

Maybe it was neither of those times. Maybe it was the furious wanking in his tent at Riverrun, sick at the thought that Bronn suspected exactly why he’d insisted on bathing privately right after his meeting with her. He’d wanted to just—just—just clear his head, that was it, get his thoughts right after she’d frustrated him with her idiotic ramblings about reasoning with the Blackfish and being compelled by honor to fight him and trying to give him the stupid sword back, it had been more than a year and she hadn’t changed a bit, aggravating intransigent woman, and anyway he was here for Cersei, for Cersei, to get back to _Cersei, fucking hell the way her eyes had gone so wide when they were standing close together at the mouth of the tent, so wide and blue and clear, and she_ would _fight him if it came to it, because her honor was everything and even as she drew her sword she would still weep for him because she somehow believed he had honor too, she said she had seen it herself, his father was dead and two of his children were dead and his brother was gone and his sister was sick with poisonous rage and ambition and everything he’d ever fought for had gone to shit but she saw him, she saw him, she saw him,_ Brienne—

She was what he saw when he came with a strangled whimper. Not Cersei, but Brienne, tall as a mountain and strong as the sky, sheared blonde hair, stunning blue eyes, pale scarred skin, unwomanly unfeminine Brienne, and maybe it wasn’t the first time he’d ever wanted her but it was the first time he admitted it to himself. After all, it was undeniable: the sticky mess on his hands was proof enough.

Hours later, he had set the record straight while looming over the pile of rags that was Edmure Tully. He loved Cersei, only Cersei. Everything he did was for Cersei. All that ever mattered would be Cersei.

The key to lying convincingly was to be sure of the truth before denying it. And he’d been very convincing.

* * *

“Stop squirming.”

“Stop poking me in the eye.”

Brienne opens her mouth to respond, but literally bites her tongue at the last second. She settles for a long, pointed exhale through her nose as she uses a rag to dab at the cut right above Jaime’s left eye. It’s already stopped bleeding, but she insists on cleaning it with boiled water from the kettle Podrick brought by earlier. Jaime is too busy sulking to put much effort into stopping her.

This is not how tonight was supposed to go. He was supposed to knock on the door and find her waiting and they would kiss and touch and fuck and it would be like last night, only better because he was sober now and had the clarity of mind to actually do a decent job of bedding the woman he’s pretty sure he’s fallen in love with (a conclusion based mostly on hearsay and what Tyrion calls _common fucking sense_ as opposed to any personal experience, but still). It was supposed to be tender and passionate and at the very least only awkward _after_ the sex.

But no, twenty minutes of fully-clothed kissing and numb appendages later, Jaime has been pushed out of bed, sustained a head wound, and made embarrassed eye contact with a red-faced Podrick Payne, who clearly did not expect his lady-knight to have company when he’d come by to drop off the kettle for her evening tea.

Not how _any_ of it was supposed to go.

Now he’s sat on the bed, bare-chested (he got blood on his shirt and it really is damn hot in here) and sour as Brienne gently pats the cut on his forehead with the cloth. Like her kisses, her touch is shockingly soft for such a large and forceful woman. It summons memories made hazy and threadbare by fever, of Brienne washing his broken body and supporting his dead weight while they were in the clutches of Locke and his men. She’d been gentle then too, though he’d failed (as always) to appreciate it.

Now, the care and slowness of her tough is making it a little hard for him to maintain his pissy attitude. Part of it is how close she is to him, one hand warm on his shoulder as she leans down to examine the wound. Her face is inches from his, unique and dear, frowning as she concentrates with a lovely sincerity on healing him up.

This close he can see the little freckles and faded white scars sprinkled across her skin. Further down, the neck of her shirt has fallen open just enough that he _thinks_ he can see a pale shadow along her collarbones—clawmarks.

_The maiden fair…_

“There,” she says quietly, and suddenly she’s standing up and moving away from him, the cloth on his forehead is gone, the hand on his shoulder is gone, and even in the warmth of the room Jaime feels chilled. “I don’t think you need to be stitched, but if you want, I can go find a field medic who—”

“It’s just a bloody scratch, don’t go on about it,” he scoffs, a little harsher than he meant to. Her shoulders tighten.

He clears his throat and adds, “I…I think I’ll be fine. But thank you.”

“As you wish, Ser Jaime,” she replies, balling the cloth up in her fist and turning back towards the kettle, and her voice is so stiff and so distant that he absolutely cannot stand it.

“Brienne.”

She doesn’t turn back around. He stands up (ignoring the slight throb in his skull at the sudden movement) and reaches her in two long strides. A jolt runs through her when he wraps a hand around her elbow, exactly the same spot she grabbed him in the Dragon Pit, lifetimes ago by now.

“Brienne, I’m sorry.”

She does turn then, and when their eyes meet hers are full of—

“ _You’re_ sorry?”

He’s not quite sure how to answer, aside from “…yes?”

“Why are _you_ sorry?” she demands, and Jaime cringes. Does she really need him to spell it out?

“Well, I won’t pretend—I mean, after last night I thought it would be best to just dispense with negotiations and mount a second charge,” he says in the most playful tone of voice he can muster. “Clearly I should have spent more time on the plan of attack.”

The weird, tense, whatever-that-is in her eyes shifts very clearly to confusion, and for the millionth time Jaime wishes he had even an ounce of Tyrion’s ability to sound like he knows what he’s talking about when he’s actually got no fucking clue.

“You can leave if you want.”

She looks right at him when she says it, and he will never need proof of her bravery but he’s got it right here anyways, the way her lower lip trembles almost imperceptibly and far at the back of her low, strong voice he can hear the roughness of tears lurking. but still she looks him in the eye. Gods, why is it always at moments like this that he finds out her eyes can turn an entirely new shade of blue, unknown to man and maester, the color of a steel-forged sky?

“Leave?” he repeats stupidly, and she pulls her arm from his grasp, chin going up, feet widening to a fighting stance.

“On my sword, you have done me no dishonor,” she says, slow and deliberate. “I release you from your obligation.”

“Who says I’m obligated?”

“Why else would you be here?” She’s trying to sound matter-of-fact but there’s that sadness in her voice that she simply can’t hide. It makes his skin crawl with guilt.

“Because—well, because I—” he stumbles, searching for the right words. _Because I love you_ would be a little much for this moment, and besides he doesn’t quite trust himself to say those words to anyone other than Cersei without either bursting into tears or throwing up. _Because I want to fuck you again_ is a bit crass, and anyway it’s not just sex he’s here for, if he really wanted that there are hundreds (or at least dozens) of women in Winterfell who’d stoop to fucking the faded Golden Lion. _Because if I died tomorrow the only real regret I would have is every second I didn’t spend with you_ is a weird combination of the two.

“It’s really all right,” she says quietly. “The events of last night are already forgotten.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing.”

He doesn’t mean to say it. He was going to say something wry and clever and possibly poetic about the memories of last night, and how he is obligated to return only by virtue of it being unbearable not to, but instead he says what he says and when he does his entire body shudders with an almost violent pang of unexpected relief.

He staggers, knees suddenly weak, and Brienne catches him with strong hands on both forearms.

“Jaime?” She sounds alarmed, and Jaime tries to find his bearings and feet. He hadn’t realized until he said it how much fear there really was running through his veins. But now she knows, and what Brienne knows can’t hurt him.

“I don’t know what I’m doing when I’m with you,” he tells her, and it feels like a wave breaking over his head, the freedom of being honest. “I don’t know how to touch you, I don’t know what’s good and what’s bad, I don’t know what makes you come—”

“Jaime!”

She looks so sweet when she’s scandalized, and even now Jaime can’t help smirking.

“What’s the matter? Don’t _you_ want me to know what makes you—”

“Stop!” She smacks him on the shoulder, her cheeks flushing. He’s fully grinning now.

“Ah, so violence is part of it?”

“That’s not—you can’t—don’t be an ass,” she mumbles, eyes darting away. Jaime chuckles and reaches up to run his fingers over her jaw. She flinches but doesn’t pull back.

“An ass wouldn’t care,” he says. “An ass wouldn’t ponce around your room trying to be clever and fall out of your bed smack onto his face just because…"

“Because?” she asks when he doesn’t speak again.

But Jaime doesn’t know what to say. How does he make her understand that to him, to Jaime Lannister, sex is not and has never been about _how_ , but _who?_ That the urges of his body and the bonds of his heart have always been inextricably entwined, perhaps beyond health or sanity, certainly beyond the experience or understanding of most men. He has never fucked for the sake of fucking, not even when he and Cersei were horny teenagers with devils on their backs and a world to piss off. Every single time, fast or slow, long or short, it felt good because the feelings meant more than the sum of their parts, they meant _love._

Love was what drove him last night, made it fucking miraculous for him and his body—but love is also what paralyzes him now, because all he wants is to make Brienne feel the way she made him feel, the way Jaime has always known sex to make a person feel, and if he can’t do it, if she doesn’t feel it, then it’s true, the Golden Twins have broken each other, Cersei and he are mutants twisted beyond saving and his love is too poisonous to replant in clean soil.

He takes a deep breath and runs his good hand through his hair, so shaggy and greying now. Cersei wouldn’t want him like this, aging and vulnerable and earnest. Maybe he’d always known that, somehow, that in order to grow old he would have to leave before she killed him young.

Wary of his silence, Brienne takes a small step back, but instead of letting her go any further he leans into her, his head coming to rest on her shoulder. She tenses slightly at first, but a moment later her hands slide down his arms to his waist and she is tentatively embracing him, warm and solid and enduring. He closes his eyes and enjoys the feeling of being held.

* * *

Their bodies could not be more different.

Cersei has always been beautiful, but it was only after she went through what the septa called the “woman’s change” that Jaime understood what that was really supposed to mean. As a child she’d been full of life, energy vibrating out of her, wide eyes and skinny little limbs. Her brother found her beautiful because beauty was joy in seeing, joy in presence, and he found such joy in the presence of Cersei. She excited and inspired him and that was beautiful.

But the woman’s change came and that’s when Jaime learned that beauty had rules. Cersei’s hips widened to plush curves, though her waist stayed slim and defined. Her legs were long and moved gracefully, and both the skin and the soft hair covering them were a lovely gold. Her breasts, which had once looked no different from his own flat chest, were suddenly filling out the front of all her dresses, round and full, not so large as to be disproportionate but not so small that they did not suggest weight or heft, the perfect size to cup in one’s hand. Her skin was smooth and clear, her hair fell in shining golden waves down her back, and the shape of her face lengthened just a little, slimmed down just a touch, until there was a perfect symmetry of bone and eye and lips that suggested a god’s deliberate handiwork. And speaking of hands, Cersei’s seemed almost to flutter with the grace of birds, the slim little wrist and shapely fingers gesturing and sewing and stroking his chest so fluidly it could make him dizzy.

He loved her body, loved making love to it. He saw how other men looked at her, where their eyes went, and he would always feel a rush of manly pride to know that he was the only one who truly knew not just how she looked, but how she _felt._ What the space between her breasts smelled like when he buried his face there, how warm the insides of her thighs could be, the differences in taste between the sweat he licked from her neck and her ass and her stomach.

Cersei’s body was everything a woman’s should be, and Jaime had learned it inside and out. He memorized every erogenous zone and how it responded to different touches, the wide variety of textures and sensitivities that appeared in a single body part. He knew she liked her nipples sucked on, though not with teeth, and that flickering his tongue or fingers across them would make her moan but one second too long and she’d wince and shove him away. He knew that her ears were not sensitive but her neck was, and that the only place she liked biting was on the meat of her ass and the area right above where the hair around her cunt grew, both of them easy to hide under dresses and from Robert’s occasional fumblings. He knew she liked hard, flat swipes of his tongue across her clit, no fancy shapes or variations, just rough lapping over and over while she rubbed herself against him and he worked one, then two, then one again, then suddenly three fingers inside of her, and she didn’t like it when he curled them but she did like a fast rubbing of the pads of his fingertips over one specific spot inside.

And more than anything, he knew where and how and when she liked his cock, the positions and the pace and the power. She liked minimal preparation for it, arching into the burn and moaning when he took her after the briefest foreplay. She liked short, sharp thrusts in the beginning, faster over time but always hard, with real impact, and sometimes he felt like he would break her because she was so soft and small and delicate but she would dig her nails into his ass and spur him on, harder harder harder, harder than he wanted to because it started to hurt his lower back and pelvis and he didn’t like the sounds she made but he always did it, for her, because it made her body feel good. And after, if they had time (they rarely did), she wouldn’t want to be touched anywhere but her hands and shoulders, gentle rubs and caresses, lying near him but touching nowhere else, and he did it all for her, for what her body wanted.

Brienne’s body is not like this.

For one thing, he hasn’t known it since—well, since it was in the womb. He hasn’t watched it find itself through the woman’s change. He doesn’t know, really, what she was like as a child, or any of the time before they first met. He can’t trace anything back to its origin, the way he can with Cersei.

For another, until very recently he had only seen her naked once, and the rest of the time she was wearing bulky armor or plain leather jerkins and ugly skirts and nothing that invited a closer look, the way most women’s clothing did. Brienne’s body seemed to simultaneously fascinate and repulse: she was so tall that you had to stare, but once it became clear she was a woman you couldn’t really bear to try and figure out how. The opposite of Cersei, who was ultimate womanhood in clothing and out—Brienne was a question nobody wanted to answer.

Except for Jaime. Even in the beginning, when he’d taken for granted how ugly she was, he’d found her, well, interesting. At first, from behind, he thought it was impossible to tell she wasn’t a man, especially not with her armor and the way she slouched. But over time, he realized that no, that wasn’t true. Her proportions were different, subtly so, but they were. Her legs were not thick and bulky but long, very long, _extraordinarily_ long, and even with the unusual amounts of muscle they were beautifully shaped, he could tell by the way her threadbare trousers would cling and stretch as they hiked across fields and forests. She had hips, though the squares of her armor and tunics hid them almost completely, and when they emerged from gloves and were not clutching a sword or the end of his prisoner’s rope her hands were just as exquisitely shaped as her legs, long tapering fingers that made swordplay callouses look refined. Her hair—well, it really did look ridiculous, after all she was a _woman_ , but it was thick and kept its creamy yellow color even when neither of them had bathed for weeks and the strands clung together with grease and dirt.

At Harrenhal, he’d seen more. A lot more. He’d seen that she really did have hips, not so wide and rounded as Cersei’s but more elongated, a subtle curve up into a high waist. Her skin was not gold, but a soft mix of white and pink, and covered all over with the same little scars that any swordsman earned in their youth. There were other imperfections: stretchmarks around her thighs, some dark freckles and a few moles, what looked like some loose skin sagging just a little from her lower belly. The hair around her cunt had probably never been trimmed (Cersei had a maid keep hers neat and very close) and it was several shades darker than the hair on her head. Her breasts were high and tight—he’d seen blacksmiths with bigger ones—but they were there, subtle and lean, nipples pointier and puffier than most women’s. Her face wasn’t really _ugly_ , if you took a second to look at it, just framed like it by the startlingly short haircut. Her lips and jaw and nose were not delicate or lovely, but they made sense with each other, formed something whole and complete. And her eyes—well, not even a full suit of armor and helmet could keep them from complimenting her.

And everywhere, muscle: her stomach, her legs, her shoulders and arms and chest. He could see the way she was threaded together with amazing clarity, strength enough to challenge the strongest men (even him, if he’d still had two hands). She wasn’t a bulging freak like the Mountain, but solid and steady, honed, quick. She didn’t look ornamental, she didn’t look graceful or pleasing, but she looked capable. She looked like she was built to withstand.

Not womanly, though. Not feminine in the least, and certainly not delicate. A cunt and breasts, yes, but almost nothing else from the list of the requirements, the list based on Cersei. And, it stood to reason, the less she was like Cersei, the less his body should want hers.

Yet Jaime had thought about her body for years after that, some of which he spent in deep denial. And that night, after the feast and Tyrion’s idiotic game, he’d crossed a threshold in more ways than one and suddenly her body was there and he was looking at it and then he reached out and—

The fucking wine. It clouded his memory, made patches of nothing appear in moments that he desperately wanted to remember with crystal-clear accuracy. What did her breasts taste like? How did she move when he ran his hand up her leg and over the curve of her ass? What got her wetter, his tongue in her ear or his thigh rubbing hard against her through the crotch of her pants? He doesn’t know, he doesn’t know because he’d needed to drink to even get into that room and then it was so surreal and he was so frightened and nervous because this wasn’t Cersei’s body, he didn’t know his way around any of this. He couldn’t bury his face between her breasts because her breasts were too small for that, and he couldn’t hoist her up onto his lap because she was much heavier than he was used to, especially with one hand, and the distance between mouth and breasts and cunt were all different and sex for Jaime was like drilling with a sword, over and over, the moves and skills honed to an instinct, except suddenly someone had taken away his sword—no, they had taken away his _hand_ , and every simple thing was alien and complicated again, and he was totally helpless and weak and failing.

So maybe it wasn’t only the wine, or the wine at all, that had made it all feel like a dream or a story that he found himself dropped into the middle of. But rather than stopping to think or consider or even say something to Brienne, Jaime had opted for total abandon. Instead of taking the time to explore or experiment he’d just let pure need take over, rubbing and grabbing and licking and taking no time to savor any of it. He hadn’t been a complete animal: he’d put his fingers into her before his cock, because he was horny and drunk and messed-up but he wasn’t stupid, and even through the haze he’d watched carefully for any sign of discomfort or pain, holding himself together through the first couple thrusts, gritting his teeth and curling his toes to fight off the wave of primal pleasure and urge to _fuck_ because it was one thing to ruin this for himself but if he ruined this for Brienne he’d fall on his own fucking sword, and he knew for a fact that she’d gasped and grabbed at him but when he tried to ask her through a clumsy mouth if she was all right she had moaned over him and rolled her hips, and then all he really remembered was the searing joy of it, pleasure and relief and love all mixed up together, this was sex without Cersei, sex with _Brienne,_ new in body and soul, and he had definitely come at some point, he remembered a feeling of near-agony and then flying up and away and into the safety of his knight.

But he doesn’t remember if she came, and if she did, he has no idea what he did to make it happen. And that’s why this _has_ to go right tonight. Because she deserves so much more than a washed-up old man too lazy to learn more than one body. She deserves to be worshipped for exactly what and who she is, not just for how her breasts and cunt make him feel but how _they_ can feel when he touches them right, the way only _she_ likes the best. Brienne’s body is as singular as the rest of her, and perhaps if Jaime’s life had been more like other men’s he might have missed her, the way so many do. But somehow, the least virtuous man in Westeros has been rewarded by the gods with the rarest prize, the chance to give Brienne of Tarth even a hint of the pleasure and love she deserves, and Jaime has failed at so many things in his life but even when love and pleasure were poison he had more to give.

Brienne’s body is nothing like Cersei’s, but Jaime finds himself loving it anyway. Or maybe that is why he loves it. Or maybe—maybe he just loves it because he loves _her,_ every part of her, flesh and soul, and when Jaime Lannister loves, he does not stop at just _enough._

* * *

This time, Brienne is the one who comes for _him._

Jaime tries to speak once or twice, but the words keep bottlenecking in his throat and he just winds up burying his face back in Brienne’s neck. She holds him tighter, running her hands slowly up and down his back, so fucking strong and solid. Everything about her makes him feel safe.

If Jaime didn’t already know, this would be the moment to realize just how bad he’s got it for her.

When one of her hands lifts off of him and her chest begins to draw away from his, he feels a flicker of panic— _have I already driven her away with this pathetic clinging and cringing—_ but almost immediately she rests her hand gently on his cheek, only removed enough now to be able to look him in the eye. She doesn’t look upset or confused, the way she did earlier. In fact, the way she’s looking at him is almost—well—

It’s like that day on the bridge, the last time he ever held a sword in his own two hands. He’d been sneering and taunting and she’d been furious with him and with herself but when it came down to the moment, that breathless instant before their steel met and sang, there’d been nothing in her face but determination and focus and something approaching…hunger.

Now, here in her room at Winterfell, it’s not just approaching anymore. She’s looking at him like she wants to devour him, and for the first time that evening Jaime stops thinking about what _he_ wants to do. Brienne is a commander. His commander. If she leads, he counts himself lucky to follow.

But there’s still a sense of restraint and wariness about her, even as she allows herself to want a little harder. Her palm is wide and warm on his cheek, and her thumb rests gently at the corner of his right eye. She’s looking down at his mouth now, biting her own lip, and Jaime desperately wants to kiss her again.

“I don’t know what I’m doing either,” she says finally. It’s the same tone of voice from last night, _“I’ve never slept with anyone before,”_ and she doesn’t shrink away when she says it. In fact, she leans in, slowly, feeling out the distance between them, until her forehead touches his and Jaime lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding in. She closes her eyes and he closes his, focusing on the comforting solidity in every point of contact between them.

“That’s no excuse,” he whispers, and when he feels her tense slightly he hurries to add, “For _me._ I want you to feel—I want you to know what makes this good.”

“I think I have some idea,” she says, and now it’s her turn to awkwardly explain herself. “I mean, I’ve seen things, and I’ve heard—things, that’s all. But I don’t know how to do any of that.”

“ _Good,”_ Jaime snorts. “I would guess you’ve heard camp followers trying to outdo each other by screaming like cats in heat, and whatever you’ve seen is only of the quality accepted by those who don’t care enough to bother hiding. This isn’t about what appears pleasurable to everyone else, Brienne, it’s about pleasure for its own sake, for _your_ sake, do you understand?”

She sucks in a sharp breath, surprised for some reason. Jaime mirrors the hand on his cheek by stroking the right corner of her lips with his thumb, forehead still pressed to hers, full of desire and doubt and fear and frustration. Her head is bowed slightly because she’s taller than him, and he has a crazy thought that he’s the one receiving a benediction, not her.

“I don’t want to touch you like I touched her,” he says, unable to look her in the eye. Cersei shouldn’t here, in this hot room in cold Winterfell, less than a full day after he put his hands and mouth on Brienne’s bare skin. The words are thick in his throat again but he gets them out because he has to, he _has_ to, he owes her this explanation if nothing else. “I’ve only been with—with one person, ever, and I don’t know what to do for anyone else. For you.”

Brienne is silent for a moment, and when she speaks it sounds physically painful, like she’s swallowed a piece of glass. “I see…and I understand now, if…you can’t bear it.”

Jaime’s eyes fly open. Hers are still shut, screwed up tight, tensed for a blow. “Can’t bear what?” he demands.

“To be with someone who isn’t beautiful.”

At first, it doesn’t make sense to him. It’s been so long since he thought of her as ugly, or even thought of her in terms of how she was _supposed_ to look. He never wanted her to look like Cersei, she wouldn’t be Brienne if she looked like Cersei, and for years now, she’s been so far beyond any of that, at least to him, yet now—

He kisses her before he can complete the thought, crushing her mouth against his with the hand on her jaw. She squeaks and wobbles on her feet but he doesn’t care, he wraps his stump around her waist and steadies her against him even as he takes advantage of her surprise to lick into her mouth and _growl_ , deep and possessive and unequivocal. She kisses him back as best she can, but it’s her turn to have weak knees, and when he finally pulls back and presses their foreheads together again she’s panting, arms encircling his torso, clinging to him.

“You deserve to be worshipped,” he breathes, “by someone worthy of the task.”

It happens so quickly that it takes his brain a long few seconds to catch up. One second they’re standing there beside the fire, so close he can feel her breath on his jaw and the heat of her chest against his, and the next he’s on his back in the middle of the bed, legs flung out at a crazy angle because he’s pretty sure she _picked him up and threw him there_ , and that thought only has a moment to shoot through him like a wild bolt of lightning before she’s on top of him, her knees on either side of his hips, and she’s so big over him, so much, so _Brienne_ , and his heart hammers in his chest and her eyes are so wide and there’s fear in them but something else, something savage and hopeful, and he reaches up to pull her down but she’s already coming to him.

* * *

Lovemaking with Cersei had rules. Almost all of them unspoken, even at the very beginning, woven into the fabric of the bond that already existed between them. Most of them were to Jaime’s liking; some were not, and some he actively dreaded, but it was all part of _them_ , their life together, and he never even thought of putting a toe out of turn.

Many of the rules had to do with keeping their secret. In Casterly Rock, then in King’s Landing, there were times and places and excuses that they relied on. Alcoves, unused hallways, all manners of dark corners and hidden nooks in which they could be reasonably sure they wouldn’t be disturbed. Early-morning hours, when Cersei could demand to be escorted to the baths and then left alone, or early afternoon on days Jaime was off-duty, or late at night when Robert or Joffrey or whoever’s ass was on the great bloody metal chair had their own vices to indulge. And any number of duties, tasks, appointments, the most mundane of time-wasters that nobody would ever want to ask about or need to confirm. For all that they were flagrantly breaking the laws of man and gods, they knew they had to adhere to time-tested strategies in order to keep themselves from discovery (the Broken Tower at Winterfell had been a risky gamble in an unfamiliar place, and look how that turned out).

But once they were finally alone, a new set of rules came into play.

Only in the last few years—since his capture by the Starks, meeting Brienne, the loss of his hand and with it his entire identity as dictated to him since childhood—had Jaime given any real thoughts to Cersei’s tastes in bed. After all, her tastes had always been his tastes too. That was the basis of everything between them, one person split into two bodies, indistinguishable in the form of the soul. He had no reason to wonder why she liked what she liked, because he liked it too. And anyway, according to the rules, Cersei got what she liked.

What she liked was pain. Not in excess, not to the extent of some of the twisted fuckers that paid Littlefinger extra for tiled rooms where blood was easily washed away. But she liked to hurt, and to be hurt. Their kisses were biting and harsh, all teeth and jabbing tongue. Where he was allowed to bite, he was told to bite hard, teethmarks etched white, then red, then black on her skin. She told him to pull her hair, sometimes so hard that he worried he’d rip a handful out, but it made her writhe and gasp and buck against him when he did it. And she loved it when he slapped her during sex: usually just on her ass and thighs, so as to avoid any marks in noticeable places, but at times she would insist on being hit across the face with the flat of his hand, though he never did it hard enough to really please her. He never did anything hard enough, because he was scared his strength and her delicacy might lead them past a terrible point of no return—but he tried as hard as he could, to be gentle in his cruelty.

She liked to cause pain too. She always had—when they were children, the games were rough, and even now he cringed when he remembered the things he’d let her do to Tyrion—but when sex entered the mix, it seemed to give Cersei an outlet for things she could never do outside of bed, where the only weapons she had at her disposal were words and intrigue. She scratched him, all over, his back and hips and ass and shoulders, places that would sting and sweat when they were covered by his armor. It always seemed like she was fighting him, even when he was doing exactly what she wanted, she would sink her nails or teeth into him and push him away even as she clenched around his cock and breathed his name. And if he stopped responding, if he tried to accommodate her or halt the action, she would snarl and swear, filthy whorehouse words that sounded even more obscene coming from her lovely mouth, and insult his manhood and his intelligence and everything he’d ever done for her, it was never enough, he was useless, useless, useless, and then he’d yank her arm back so far it creaked beneath his fingers and she’d gasp and it would be back to love.

But that was only part of it, the pain of the flesh. When they were out in the real world, she the dazzling beauty and Queen, he the Golden Lion and Kingsguard, Cersei radiated power. She might have been a woman, relegated to the side and draped in useless jewels, but the way she carried herself and the severity of her gaze prompted automatic deference from almost everyone who crossed her path. She was a full-blooded Lannister, haughty and ornate, and nobody with a brain in their heads did not feel uneasy in her presence.

When they were alone, she wanted him to try and destroy her.

Humiliation, her on her knees with her face to the ground as he fastened a hand around the back of her neck and pounded into her from behind. Crush her into tabletops, hold her down by her wrists or her ankles or her hair. Manhandle her and push her against walls and hurt her and pretend not to notice when she hurt him and be the man, be _her_ man, put her in her place, the world was a pile of shit and she’d been dragged through it on a bed of silks but he was the half born with a cock and a right to power and he had to use it, on her, cruelly, brutally, _“hurt me, Jaime, hurt me like I’m yours”…_

Oh, it wasn’t always such a festival of pain. They had to limit themselves so as to avoid making too much noise or moving too violently. Rarely did they have the luxury of a bed, let alone uninterrupted time to play out anything very involved. But even their most hurried trysts, fully clothed with skirts and plates of armor wrenched askew and hands over each other’s mouths to muffle the sounds, were exercises in subjugation. Cersei wanted pain of all kinds, needed it to keep her focused and dagger-sharp with rage, would lose herself in a world of hopelessness without it. And it was Jaime’s job to give it to her, no matter how little time or space or desire he had to do so.

Because he _didn’t_ like it. Her way, Cersei’s way. He didn’t. He didn’t like it.

But that wasn’t something he was supposed to know.

In the days after the Starks and Brienne and his maiming, the most familiar and unquestioned aspects of his life seemed to shimmer and twist before his eyes, as though blurred by the haze above a bonfire. Not because of Brienne—or rather, not _only_ because of Brienne. However she had changed him, Locke’s knife had changed him more, and the loss of his hand recast everything in a new light—including Cersei. For weeks she didn’t come to him, turned her back when he would look at her in the old way, and when they finally went back to bed she was totally repulsed by his stump. Without two hands he couldn’t touch her in the same way, couldn’t put on the same pressure or restrain her with the same firmness. It didn’t seem to be as satisfying for her to touch him either, and the first time she scratched him he whimpered, which he had always done before, but instead of spurring her on she made a noise of disgust and drew away from her and left a moment later with her skirts shaken back into place.

And he didn’t mind.

He minded the coldness. He minded how she looked at him like a stranger, the only person who had ever really known him, now she was punishing him—for what? For returning to her anything but perfect, for bothering to return at all if he knew he couldn’t be everything she’d always demanded of him? But while he missed her, grew desperate for the intimacy and the sense of belonging and love that for so long had take the shape of her name, he didn’t miss the rest of it.

He didn’t miss the pain. He didn’t miss the insults and the rebukes. He didn’t miss orgasms being interrupted with the sharp agony of teeth clamped around his nipple. He didn’t miss the sting of his palm after he’d slapped her ass raw, and he didn’t miss the tension and sense of foreboding that stole over him automatically at the first hint of arousal.

Jaime had never noticed any of it before. It was all just—the way it was, sex, magnificent because Cersei was magnificent and he loved her and sex was love because sex was with Cersei. And he also knew it wasn’t unusual, not really, not from things that soldiers and members of the City Watch and the less circumspect courtiers discussed. Biting, scratching, dirty insults—none of it was out of the ordinary, at least among men who actually seemed to enjoy sex rather than viewing it as some kind of tired obligation or a means to a financial end.

But then he lost his hand and met a giant blonde woman who believed in honor and the pain between him and Cersei lost something. It no longer bound them together as it once had. To the point where, when she’d threaten to set the Mountain on him, he’d finally understood just how broken their link was. She no longer found anything of value in what he felt. It would give her more pleasure to have a monster cut him down and retain her grip on control than it would to rip his heart out herself.

It makes him see that the pain was never going to be enough to keep them together, and if anything, what a fucking waste.

* * *

Brienne doesn’t like pain.

He’s not sure at first, since last night any discomfort he might have caused her was more a result of clumsiness and drunken stupidity than any sort of intention. As they lie there on the bed, kissing and clutching at each other, old habits kick in again and he bites her lower lip.

Earlier tonight, she’d winced slightly when he’d done that. Now, she pulls away entirely, her eyes sparkling as she rises up on her elbows above him. Jaime tries to slow his breathing and feels a thrill of shame run through him.

“I’m sorry, I—”

This time she’s the one to cut him off with a kiss. Only instead of wild and passionate, this one is slow and deep and heats from the bottom up, like fire bringing a kettle to boil. Her lips brush against his before returning to press, soft at first then harder, coaxing his mouth open with gentle suction and the tip of her tongue. Instead of biting his lip or plunging her tongue into his mouth, like Cersei would, Brienne explores patiently with lips and tongue and the gentlest scraping of teeth.

Their breath mingles in heated puffs and their noses bump as they taste and touch. Sometimes they just let their lips slide against each other before parting again, or he feels the barest hint of her tongue tracing the roof of his mouth but then it’s gone again, and whenever he tries to capture her mouth more firmly with his she pulls away, not too far, just enough to be— _coy,_ somehow, Brienne of Tarth is _teasing_ him.

And it’s making him come out of his skin.

He doesn’t know why. He’s never done this before, been so deliberate and soft and playful, even in a kiss. Passion means fast and hard, passion means strength, passion means— _oh Gods,_ passion means just the hint of a lick slow and dragging across his bottom lip and then nothing, she retreats _again,_ and he tries to sit up to follow her mouth—but with a sudden tightening of powerful hands and a _whumph_ as the air is knocked out of his lungs he’s flat on his back again, helpless beneath her.

It feels like an ax to the gut, the shock of sensations that burn through him, a mingling of arousal and surprise and excitement, but beyond any of those is a strange and sickening stab of recognition— _I’ve done something wrong, I’ve made her unhappy and now comes the punishment, this is the part where I enjoy being hurt because it’s what she wants—_

“Jaime?”

And just like that, the hands on his shoulders vanish, nobody’s pushing him down, and Brienne is sitting back to straddle his lap and staring down at him with such concern in her face, like she can see his thoughts, like she _doesn’t_ want the pain to come, like she’s trying to figure out how to _help._ Like he can trust her.

For a long second, Jaime floats in a feeling that for so long only came from his time with Cersei—freedom.

Then, his voice shaking, he whispers, _“More,”_ and he reaches up with his one good hand, grabs a fistful of her shirt, and yanks her back down.

This time their kissing isn’t slow, it’s not teasing, it’s running at top speed along the edge of a cliff and yet it’s still _nothing_ like kissing Cersei.

Her hands are cradling his face, fingers in his hair, and they’re both breathing hard but not from pain, and when he curls his tongue against hers she moans weakly, a sound he swallows with desperate gladness. Instead of biting, he repeats some of what they were doing early, sucking and stroking with his tongue, luxuriating in the feeling of their lips against each other. They’re chest-to-chest, her linen shirt against his naked skin, and with a very deliberate motion Brienne spreads her knees apart so that her whole body drops and her hips grind down into his and _fuck,_ he can’t _breathe,_ it’s so _good, again,_ and she does it again, and she grins at him this time, so pleased, so brave, his Brienne, and they kiss and kiss and kiss but it doesn’t hurt, it’s dizzying and loving and Jaime never wants it to stop.

It doesn’t stop, but it does change. Slowly, building on her burst of confidence, Brienne begins taking the lead. First she works them further up the bed, moving Jaime with such easy strength that his head spins deliciously, and then they can lay along their full lengths, her weight bearing down on him and one of her legs slotted back between his, her gloriously firm thigh rubbing against him and making him gasp and leak inside his trousers. _Gods,_ she’s tall, she’s _so tall_ , it’s like she’s a cloak draped over him, warm and heavy and absolute in her protection. Cersei was smaller than him and so light, slender limbs and plush breasts with no dense muscle beneath. But with the exhilarated joy of the adventurer stepping onto a fresh new continent, he discovers that there is an entirely different pleasure in a partner whose strength and size are equal or greater to his.

_Perhaps most men would not feel this way. But I am not most men._

Her hands are all over him: briefly at first, nervous touches to places other than his face and neck, but within minutes she grows braver and starts to run her hands all over him, his ribs and hip and arms—thank the Gods his nose bled all over his shirt and his skin is bare, but why is she still clothed, he’s got to do something about that—and every time she touches him somewhere new the fire spreads and tingles beneath his skin until it feels like every part of them is kissing. Before long Jaime is starting to writhe and squirm, panting into her mouth, sloppy kisses that go straight to his hard and aching cock. He wishes desperately for two hands with which to rip her clothes away and even the score, get his own fill of her wonderful soft skin.

It doesn’t seem to be on purpose, but when Brienne finally appears to notice he’s been futilely tearing at her clothes and levers herself up to strip off her shirt, she puts her weight on the hand currently closed around his wrist, trapping one of his wrists against the bed again. This time, with no doubt in his mind that she would give him back control if he desired it, there is no fear or dread in Jaime’s reaction to the gesture. All that hits him is a bolt of pure arousal, slamming into his chest at the speed of a running horse— _she’s so fucking strong, holding him down, he’s overpowered, she could absolutely anything to him._

Jaime gasps and arches up, hips rolling obscenely. Immediately Brienne releases him, that same worried look on her face, but this time he doesn’t let her pull away too far. He shakes his head fervently and grinds against her thigh without shame, one leg bending and coming up around her waist, a move straight out of a whorehouse but Jaime doesn’t care, he’s past caring now.

 _“Do that again,”_ he whines, and Brienne’s eyes widen but she does, she grabs his wrist and pins it to the bed, and then with a spark of something daring in her eye, she reaches for his stump and pins it as well, and then she leans hard into her hands and Jaime feels her grip so strong around his wrists that he knows there will be bruises and _oh, oh Gods, that’s it_ , he’s coming with a jolt, grunting and groaning, his whole body bucking as the sweet waves of tension and release roll through him. It’s intense and overwhelming and somehow different from what he’s used to, a climax of a strange and unfamiliar color. Brienne watches him the whole time, or at least he thinks she does, he’s not sure because at some point his eyes definitely roll into the back of his head. But when he finally comes down, breathing ragged and trembling all over, she’s looking down at him with her mouth hanging open and her eyes so bright they make the moon look dull.

“Fuck,” he manages, head limp on the bed. Slowly, Brienne releases his wrists, and he can’t help but shiver at the twinges of pain in her joints.

“Did you…you liked that,” she whispers.

He huffs out a laugh and glances wryly downwards, where his breeches are already beginning to darken with dampness. “Whatever made you think so?”

Brienne blushes and looks away, running a hand through her sex-tousled hair. Jaime closes his eyes and focuses on getting his breathing back to normal. He savors the lingering echo of his orgasm, basking in it before it filters entirely out of his system, because he knows he has only a short while before it’s his turn.

After all, he did tell her that she deserved someone up to the task.

* * *

Jaime takes his time throughout the rest of the night.

Not that Brienne always appreciates that. She certainly calls him names once or twice, and at one point she glares at him with fiery wrath and promises to run him through with Oathkeeper if he does that one more time. Of course, once he puts his tongue back on her clit, she stops making threats, and forgets she made them in the first place, and probably forgets who or what Oathkeeper is anyway.

He can’t get enough. When they’ve finally gotten rid of all of their clothes and she’s bare before him, Jaime’s eyes almost cross because he’s trying to look at every part of her at once. She’s shy again, the boldness of the woman who held him down and let him hump her leg like a beast overwhelmed by the memories of cruel and petty words. She curls up on the bed, knees coming to her chest, arms wrapping around her waist like she’s trying to make herself look smaller beneath his gaze.

He refuses. He absolutely and unequivocally refuses to be denied access to the sight of her, to the absolute vision of her strong and unique body. First, he looks, letting every hint bit of lust show on his face as his eyes roam across her, and then he tastes. His mouth starts up at her hairline, kissing and nipping at the thin skin dotted with sweat from exertion and nerves and the heat of the room, and travels down across her face, her ears—he lingers there for a while because apparently a light breath in one ear will make her squirm and his tongue running over the ridges will make her gasp and moan and clutch at him breathlessly—her neck, each of her shoulders, her collarbone, and so on. He has to taste and smell and touch it all. He has to find where her pleasure is hiding.

And he does. Oh, he _does._ After her ears, he discovers that her nipples are equally sensitive, if not more so. Unlike Cersei, she _does_ enjoy teeth there, and he only stops experimenting to find out just how much when one particularly sharp nip makes her moan so loudly and wantonly that she actually claps her hand over her own mouth to shut herself up and glares down at him, chest heaving and indignation radiating out of every pore.

Jaime is having the time of his life.

He spends what feels like an hour on her stomach, ribs, ass, and those eternal legs. His mouth and hand rove in ever-shifting patterns across the broad expanse of his lady, paying particular attention to the sturdy columns of her thighs and the wonderful softness of the loose skin around her belly. She doesn’t like to be bitten in these places—again, unlike Cersei—but she does have several ticklish spots, and Jaime has a fun couple minutes dodging blows before he continues southward and apologizes for bothering her by putting his mouth on her cunt for the first time.

If it felt like he spent an hour on her torso and legs, it must be at least a week that he spends between her legs, methodically testing and trying and doing his level best to drive her insane. At first, she’s so nervous and skittish that she flinches every time his tongue touches her, and he has to retreat and nuzzle and kiss the softest and wettest part of her while she calms down. But soon enough her hands tentatively come down to stroke his hair, and with a sigh of utter bliss Jaime shuffles closer and presses in, in, inhaling the scent of her as his tongue begins the first of many relentless assaults.

Last night, he wasn’t sure if she came. Tonight, he’s not sure how many _times_ she comes. It has to be more than four, judging by the throb in his jaw and the pruning of his fingers and the wetness that soaks dark and clumping into the furs beneath them. Enduring in battle, she is the same way here, nearly sobbing by the third orgasm and too overcome to make noise soon after that, but never yielding, never asking for reprieve, her hips endlessly pushing up towards his mouth and fingers. When he finally lifts his head up and winces at the crick in his neck, it is not because she asks for mercy, but because he’s been restlessly rutting against the mattress for at least the last ten minutes and if he comes twice in one night without ever getting inside her then he should probably just let the Dragon Queen’s remaining beasts eat him, what would be the point anymore?

But he does get inside her, sliding in without absolutely any resistance, but the truth is he barely notices because the look of her—the vision that she is, spread out beneath him, gulping for air and covered in sweat, her skin blotchy, her hair a bird’s nest of tangles, her eyes wet and her voice hoarse from crying out—transports him completely. He’s flying again, out of the room, above the clouds, echoes of Brienne’s pleasure singing beneath his wings and her trembling legs warm where they cross at the small of his back.

After everything, all the build-up to fucking her that night, the sex itself is actually relatively short. Jaime is too worked up and Brienne is too shattered for much athleticism or acrobatics, especially not in the missionary position (though Jaime is absolutely of a mind to have her ride him with his arms pinned down, as soon as humanly possible). But it is during these short minutes of grunts and thrusts and grasping hands on his biceps that Jaime realizes—he’s done it.

He’s made love to someone that isn’t Cersei. Not just had sex or fucked, but given someone—not just someone, _Brienne_ —the feeling of being loved top to bottom, inside and out. And not only that, but she’s made love to him. She’s brought pleasure out of every inch of him, watched him to see where he likes it most, listened when he asked for help and taken care of him when he let himself go.

There is no pain when he is with Brienne. There is trust, vulnerability, sometimes confusion, sometimes aggravation, and always passion, in one form or another—but no pain. She does not require it of him, and he does not feel compelled to deliver it to her. They don’t use each other to find pleasure, but reach it together through a mutual desire to fully inhabit the way the other person has changed them.

It lasts forever and not long enough. Brienne doesn’t come on his cock (which is the next mountain Jaime is determined to conquer), but after he comes with a yell and a wracking shudder inside of her, Jaime brings her to one last climax with his fingers, lying limp and exhausted on her chest with his dogged left hand already retracing its most successful steps from earlier. As she comes, she chokes out “yes” and “fuck” and something that might be “I love you,” but Jaime twists his thumb at exactly the wrong time and the phrase dissolves into a broken sob halfway through.

No matter. He’ll ask her tomorrow. Or else he’ll make her come and come and come until she says it again. There’s time enough for both.

The room is dark by this time, the fire long since spent and the air growing much chillier. Brienne barely manages to pull the furs over their sticky, ripe-smelling bodies—he doesn’t think she was this shattered even after the Long Night, which says something about the staying power of undead warriors versus Jaime Lannister’s desire to make the woman he loves come—and falls asleep in his arms almost immediately, the tiniest hint of a smile on her lips so sweet that Jaime has to remind himself that it is physically impossible for him to fuck her again for at least another few hours (and possibly before breakfast). Anyways, they probably owe it to the rest of the wing to wrap it up for the night; there will be several people who will very rightfully represent being kept awake all night by the sexual ruckus.

Jaime lies there for a couple minutes, cradled in her arms, his back to her chest. In the aftermath of the evening, he picks through the jumble of emotions in his heart, carefully searching for anything that might prove an ominous portent. Surprisingly, the normal feelings that follow sex—trepidation, resentment, savage possessiveness and a desire to burrow down into his bedfellow’s chest until she swallows him up and he never has to see the light of another day without her—are absent. He feels sleepy and sated and utterly safe, as though the demons of the past and future have both voluntarily taken a leave of absence to give him a few precious moments of peace. Brienne breathes heavy and warm behind him, and he thrills quietly at the thought that she’s never had the joy of post-coital slumber before, the deep rest that comes with having an infinity of good feelings wrung out of you by someone who takes the time to know how.

Right before Jaime follows her into oblivion, something flickers up at him from the pile of thoughts and reactions inside of him. It is golden and shining and bright, just as Cersei was so long ago. She had meant love to him, taught him how love worked and what it could, given him a lifetime of warped but useful understandings. If not for Cersei, he might not have been the man who could love Brienne. It hurts to admit, the first pain of the night, but he weathers it in his sister’s honor.

_Love is what you do with it, Cersei…which is why I had to leave._

Jaime closes his eyes, nestles back into Brienne’s arms, and lets her carry him down to the warm darkness.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading what is essentially 25 pages of me taking two fictional characters and mashing them together yelling "KISS YOU BASTARDS KISS" while weeping on the floor.
> 
> P.S. the incredible kirazi has posted some fics recently that ended up sharing a couple specific moments of action/description/setting with this one. I SWEAR ON MY CAT'S TAIL, I wrote this before I read that work. I am a big fan of kirazi's and am honestly kinda amped to have thoughts even a little similar to hers. But yeah, this work was finished a while back and was relentlessly tweaked, but not significantly changed, in the days since. So like, don't @ me pls. (unless it's to tell me to stop being a paranoid fanchick who needs to get a life)
> 
> P.P.S. I haven’t read the books and so whatever details I’ve completely fabricated about the origin of the J/C relationship are, like, y’know, fabricated. So. Sorry.


End file.
